Of Butterflies
by Natasha68
Summary: In this story (taking place some four years before "The Way Back") Veron is still a child and she asks her mother a question about butterflies. She doesn't realize that Kasabi is in mortal danger, nor that her life depends on Blake.


OF BUTTERFLIES

1.

For a moment everything is quiet, and I drop on one of the empty beds, face down, clutching the tattered sheets with a shudder of complete exhaustion. I'm not trying to fall asleep; I know it would be too risky. I just want to keep my eyes closed and rest my aching back for a few minutes. I've had so much work today, tending the wounded, with hardly any time to think or grieve properly for what has befallen us.

'Kasabi?'

Esma suddenly sits up, breathless, peering into the darkness, looking around in panic – as though she has woken up from one nightmare to find herself, inexplicably, in another.

'Kasabi – Commander – What is going on? Where is everybody? Why are there so few of us here? Why is the hospital deserted?'

Her breathing is ragged and I can tell from her voice that she is shivering. I touch her burning forehead.

'Hush. Calm down. You're running a fever.'

The other four have asked me the same, at various points during the day when they were awake. I kept evading their questions, knowing I shouldn't upset them while their condition was critical. At my insistence, Esma lies back in bed and I wipe her forehead with a wet cloth. Gradually, she relaxes. I have already given her the medicaments Corin prescribed, and done all I could to clean her infected wound. Now there's nothing to do but wait, and hope there will be some improvement by morning.

'Commander... are we still safe here?' she mutters as she's drifting off to sleep. 'Yes. Yes, we are safe,' I reply, though the words tug at my heart. She doesn't even realize what she has asked me. But I am reminded right away – of the reason _why_ this place is still safe, of _who_ is keeping it safe, and at what terrible cost.

2.

The news reached me before sunrise. The night sky had turned just a shade paler and the moon still lingered above the mountain ridge. Bran Foster was waiting for me in a small clearing in the beech forest, one of our established meeting places. It was all quite unusual. Normally our two groups just exchanged coded messages; we had strategic meetings at regular intervals, but this wasn't one of them. Bran had also refused to talk over the communicator – except very briefly, to inform me that he was coming in person. I knew right away that it must mean trouble.

He didn't even wait for me to reach the place, but started talking as soon as I was within hearing distance. 'You must evacuate immediately. Get your people out of the base and hospital. The safest course is off planet. There is no time to forge permits, but I've made an arrangement with a free trader who can hide us in his freighter. He's taking off tonight, at around 23:00. He will have room for about thirty of us. You and Veron should be on that flight.'

There was a wavering note in Bran's voice betraying exhaustion, and the dark rings round his eyes confirmed to me that he hadn't slept the previous night. But even without his appearance, his words were enough to freeze me in my tracks. It wasn't hard to guess what it all meant.

'We have been infiltrated,' I said. Bran nodded. 'I still don't know who it is, but it's clear someone has tipped Security. There was a raid last night.' Some of our people were arrested, or killed; Bran hesitated to tell me. His gaze wandered unsteadily.

'Who?' I urged him.

'Roj.'

I hid my face in my hands, and they began to tremble. 'How did it happen?'

'His group had a meeting in the sub-levels. We don't know the details, but one of my men found the bodies. It appears that only Roj was taken alive. Everybody else was gunned down on the spot.'

He spoke softly. I knew that voice so well, Bran's gentle voice that always managed to calm everyone down, even when he was talking about the most disturbing things; but with such terrible news, there was no way even he could soften the blow.

'Most of our followers in the domes were arrested as well,' he went on. 'In a few days, the Federation will know everything they know. The movement has collapsed, Kasabi; we have to act quickly.' I nodded. He was right. We both knew we would have to postpone grieving, and focus on saving those lives we still could.

The trouble was, I couldn't evacuate the patients from our hospital; not all of them, at any rate. In the previous few weeks my group had carried out a number of raids on the Federation facilities, and five of my people were badly wounded. One had to undergo a surgery. I explained it to Bran. 'I cannot move them now,' I said. 'It would kill them. Even if we managed to transport them unharmed to the spaceport, they'd never survive breaking orbit. Certainly not in some cramped compartment of a freighter.'

Bran frowned, thinking.

'There is another free trader planning to take off in three or four days. He may have time to obtain medical life-support capsules for your people.'

'Good. Arrange it.'

'But what will you do in the meantime?' He shook his head. 'They will need treatment, they will need a safe place to hide for the next three days. We don't have it.'

'Then they'll have to stay here,' I said. 'Everyone else will evacuate immediately – including all of those from the hospital whose condition is stable. I'm sending Corin along with them, too; I'm not risking the life of our only medic. I will stay behind and take care of those five.'

Our eyes met again, and I noticed that Bran's were deeply worried.

'Roj knows the location of the hospital. You are aware of that.'

'Roj will buy us three days.'

'He will certainly try,' Bran nodded gravely. 'Still, you'll be taking a tremendous risk, Kasabi. Is there no other way?'

I shook my head; my mind was made up. I didn't say anything about the fear that suddenly gripped me. 'Veron will have to go with you. Bran, if anything happens to me –'

'She'll be safe with me. You don't have to worry about that.'

We embraced, not knowing whether we would see each other again. Then I hurried back to alert my people.

3.

I had to persuade Veron to leave without me. At first I thought it would be easy. We had moved our camp occasionally, and she was used to me going ahead of the others, or staying behind, for various reasons. I pretended that it was no different this time, just routine movement of the rebel troops, and that I would soon join her and the others. The most important thing was not to let on that I was in any danger. I knew I had to make it good – be a convincing actor, given how perceptive and intelligent she was for her age; almost eleven now, as she liked to say proudly.

She didn't fuss, and I thought I had managed to trick her; but as I was helping her pack (thinking all the while how risky it was for her to linger here, how badly I wanted her to hurry up and leave) I noticed that she was worried about something. She was absent-minded, hardly listening to my instructions for the journey. Finally I asked her what troubled her.

'I was thinking about butterflies, Mom. Why do they die so quickly? Do you know, most of them live no longer than a month, or a few weeks, and some of the species live only for two or three days. Why don't they live longer, Mom?'

My throat tightened. It was as though she had sensed something. I told myself it must be just a coincidence, just one of those questions that children sometimes ask. 'What made you think about butterflies?' I asked. 'I don't know,' she said. 'I've been thinking about them all morning.'

Hiding my anxiety, I tried to answer. I thought of what little I knew about the Terran insects, but I doubted that mere facts would help. I could tell her about their life cycle, explain the transformation of the caterpillar, pupation, mating, laying eggs – but I knew it was not the _why_ that Veron was looking for. She was upset, she needed some explanation that would comfort her, and I was too tense to think of any. In the end, I gave up; I just straightened the straps on her backpack, told her to listen to Bran and promised I would tell her about butterflies when I saw her again. Then I hugged her – hoping that the desperate strength with which I pressed her body would not betray that which I had managed to mask in my voice and on my face.

4.

Esma is asleep now; beads of sweat on her forehead tell me that the fever has finally broken. I check my chrono. It's almost midnight, time for me to scout around. I put on my jacket, equip myself with a paragun and a night vision device, and go outside.

The night is cloudy, but not completely dark. A few stars and a dim moon shine some meagre light through the mist. The forest is quiet, although it has its own particular set of noises to which I am now quite accustomed. Some fifty meters above me, there is a clear mountain brook which rumbles monotonously. The night distorts and amplifies its sounds so that I get the impression it is running just next to my feet.

It isn't cold, but I shiver with exhaustion. And this is just the end of the first day, I remind myself. There really should have been two of us; it would have been much easier. We could take turns nursing the patients, or one could rest while the other one keeps watch. When I told my troops that I would remain behind with the wounded, there were many who volunteered to help me. Young, dedicated, unconcerned about their own safety, they reminded me of Roj. Perhaps I should have allowed at least one of them to stay. No, I tell myself, I know very well why I didn't. If Federation security find us, this place will turn into a trap; one more person here would only mean one more death.

I look at our hospital. Originally, it must have been some kind of a summer resort, a small hotel perhaps. There is an old tarmac winding up the mountain towards it, but it is so overgrown with brush that it has practically disappeared: you cannot see it unless you know what you're looking for. The walls of the building must have been levelled by bombings during the pre-Calendar wars, or simply crumbled in time. Only the basement structure remained intact, and suitable for our use. We camouflaged the surface slab with a thick layer of branches and shrubs so that nothing was visible from the air. We cleaned the interior from dirt and rubble and brought in equipment we had obtained with the help of free traders. As an engineer, Roj came to help us activate flutonic energy cells and set up an electric installation that would power instruments for medical procedures.

Outside my group, he is the only one who knows about this place. If we are attacked by the security forces, it will mean that he has revealed its location under interrogation.

I have no way of knowing what is going on with him. The only conjecture I can make comes from the fact that nothing is happening here. The quiet in the forest, in which I hear only the running brook, tells me that Roj is still holding out.

5.

In the afternoon of the second day, I watch Hob's face, drawn and contorted. He is tormented by phantom pain in the leg that had to be amputated. I have already given him a dose of pain killers, but it hasn't had much effect. I fill the medical laser with another dose and apply it to the side of his neck. I don't know if Corin would approve, but he is not here to ask. Several minutes later, Hob's breathing becomes deep and regular. He has been struggling with pain for such a long time that he must be completely exhausted now; as soon as it subsides, even a little, he falls asleep.

Behind my back, Esma is crying. I have told her about Roj. She has never met him in person and hardly knows anything about him, other than the fact that he is the leader of one of the rebel cells. Still, she says it makes no difference: 'How can you not cry when you hear that this has happened to one of ours?'

My eyes are dry. I cannot afford to go to pieces now. I tell myself I will cry when this is all over. I try to ignore the malicious voice at the back of my mind that snaps at me, _When what is over? It will never be over._

'Is there nothing we can do for him, commander?' Esma asks. 'Nothing,' I say, the sound of my own voice making me feel guilty. 'He won't tell them anything,' Esma says. 'He would never betray us.' 'It's not that simple,' I reply, still not turning to look at her.

I turn my attention to Gellard, who needs a fresh dressing for his wound and another treatment with the tissue regenerator for his burns. He is awake, but so dazed by weakness and fever that I believe he doesn't even understand what Esma and I have been talking about. The others are asleep. At the moment, I am grateful for that; I don't think I could put up with any more explanations.

I wonder if any of them have ever met Roj Blake. They may have seen him at one of our meetings, or heard one of his speeches, like the one he delivered on abolishing grades. _No Alphas, Betas, Gammas or Deltas_ , Roj said back then. _Just free citizens equal in rights and human dignity. Their lives and work embedded in a community which values them for who they most deeply are._ I remember that speech – though what I recall are not so much the statements, as the man uttering them: his impressive personality an integral part of his words, built into them, imbuing them with conviction and fire.

Another reason why I remember the speech is that after the end of that same meeting he surprised me with a gift for Veron. He had heard that I lived among the outsiders with a young daughter, he explained, and wanted to send her something through me.

'She must be lonely,' he said. 'I thought this might cheer her up.'

He handed me a small holo-projector that could fit in the palm of a hand, with just a few control buttons.

'I've made it myself. It's about butterflies. Nowadays there are just a few species left, but in pre-Calendar times there were thousands... I've studied some natural history,' he added, smiling warmly. Studying history was his favourite pastime, and he engaged in it whenever he could set time apart from revolutionary plans. Not just natural history, but also history of the early space flights, of Terran architecture and religious systems; and history of the Federation's expansion in the last two hundred years, although he said that many of the facts concerning it were classified or missing. 'I wish I had a computer expert in my group who would crack security codes in the Central Archives for me,' he once told me, laughing. 'There must be a lot of historical data there that the administration doesn't want us to know.'

Veron and I played the holo-recording together. She was delighted. The colourful 3-D images of butterflies came to life before our eyes, fluttering their tiny wings in the semi darkness of our shelter. The projection was accompanied by an audio recording, too – it was Roj's own voice, talking about Monarchs, Swallowtails, Longwings, Buckeyes, Crimson Roses and all the rest of them. I have heard that voice so many times. Passionate when it expressed ideals and beliefs, authoritative and thundering when it issued orders, cold and determined when it talked of military targets to be destroyed. But in this recording for Veron, it was just rich and beautiful.

I keep my back turned on Esma and Gellard to hide my distress. It was more than a year ago, and I have almost forgotten about the recording. I'm also sure that yesterday, no one told Veron that Roj was arrested – so why was she thinking about butterflies?

6.

Morning breaks on the third day, and I allow myself to hope that we may, after all, leave this place alive. The free trader has arranged for a flyer to collect us this evening and take us to a landing area where his ship will be waiting. I am sitting by the communicator throughout the morning, waiting for the agreed signal to confirm that everything runs according to plan; and when it finally comes, I am so relieved that I lean over the desk, rest my head on my arm and immediately fall asleep. It's more akin to an eclipse of consciousness, really; I black out and there are no dreams – although, immediately before I wake up, an image flashes through my mind. Strange and disturbing, of an empty chrysalis all torn to shreds.

I need to take the wounded to a plateau in the mountains where the flyer will land. We have only two anti-grav carriers, so I have to make two rounds. Hob and Frans go first; when we reach the appointed place, I unload them carefully and lay them on the blankets which I have placed there previously. In the next round, I use the carriers to transport Gellard and Bern; and Esma convinces me that she feels well enough to be carried in my arms. When I pick her up, she is as light as a feather. She has lost a lot of weight struggling with her wound and infection. She leans her head tiredly on my shoulder as we start, and I am immediately reminded of Veron.

Although Esma isn't heavy, my legs are shaking as I carry her. I'm afraid that any moment my knees will buckle and I will drop her, or we will both fall on the steep mountain trail. I move like a sleepwalker: even the stims Corin has left me can no longer help, and I hardly manage to stay alert and on my feet.

As I lower Esma on the grass, I realize the time for the rendezvous is at hand. Indeed, very soon afterwards, I hear the hum of a flyer's engine and then spot its hull as it gradually grows bigger above the tree tops. It has the Federation insignia, but it's all right: I know the free trader's men are actually inside. The code patterns we exchanged this morning were correct. Using the Federation vehicle must be their trick, a way to avoid customs when smuggling. Hopefully, it also means we will travel undisturbed to the spaceport and meet with the captain there – one of the Stannis family, who are always fair and reliable in their dealings. As agreed, he will have obtained medical capsules to provide a safe journey for my people.

7.

The free trader's ship takes us to Parides, a neutral colony, where I leave the wounded in an advanced medical facility. Paying for the space journey and for their treatment has exhausted all of our financial resources, down to the last credit – though there still wasn't enough for Hob to get another surgery and a bionic implant.

Penniless, I manage to melt into a crowd of war refugees from Saurian Major, who are accommodated in a large sports hall on the outskirts of the city. The hall's main section is packed with hundreds of bunk beds and mattresses provided by the local authorities, where the refugees now sleep and live. I huddle on one of the mattresses myself, living off a few morsels from the rations distributed in the hall, sleeping long hours from exhaustion and hunger. I listen to children crying, to grown-ups talking about the death toll and bombings, inquiring about the missing family members and friends, and crying as well. I listen to those who curse the Federation – and to some who curse the rebels, too, for starting an insurrection they could never hope to win. I think about Roj, wondering what is happening to him now, and whether he is even alive.

Four days later, I finally get in touch with a sympathizer who agrees to transport me to Lindor free of charge. It is past midnight local time when I arrive in the capital. Bran is staying there now, in a seedy apartment in the suburbs that belongs to a friend. Several members of his former rebel cell are with him, too – Dal, Ravella, and a few others whose names I don't know. We embrace and exchange smiles, although the looks in our eyes mirror each others' quiet despair: none of us really knows where we go from here.

Veron is well, they tell me right away; at this hour she's fast asleep. I open the bedroom door as quietly as I can and walk inside, my heart overflowing. I resist the temptation to wake her up, and just plant a kiss on her lovely long hair.

I return to the dining room where Bran is waiting for me. When he says he has news from Earth, my insides cramp up.

'Bad news, I presume.' I don't see how it could possibly be good.

'I don't know.' He pauses. 'I'm not sure if it's good or bad.'

I sit at the table, confused. Bran explains what he has managed to find out through his contacts: that some days ago, the authorities changed their plans with Roj. They have stopped with the interrogations, and moved him to one of their rehabilitation centers. He is now being subjected to an intensive therapy – to some form of brainwashing, Bran says: 'When it's through, they'll set up a show trial, have him confess and renounce the movement... After that, it appears the administration will flaunt their benevolence by letting him live.'

My first reaction is simply excitement: realizing that he'll stay alive, and aching with the hope that this awakens. Then the dreadful details of what Bran has told me slowly begin to sink in. During my time as a Federation political officer I was acquainted with what they call 'rehabilitation programs' for pol criminals. I know that psychomanipulators are capable of altering one's mindset thoroughly – by using hypnotic procedures and drugs, suppressing formative memories, implanting ideas. Breaking through such a conditioning is extremely difficult, if not impossible. Regardless, I tell Bran, we have to find some way of getting Roj back; we owe it to him to try.

Bran gives me a troubled look under his thick eyebrows. 'Do you think I don't want it as much as you do, Kasabi?' he says gently. 'But the movement on Earth has been wiped out; right now, we don't have anything to return to. It might take us three or four years to consolidate and gather resources before we can even think about organizing resistance again...'

We leave the conversation there, without fully resolving anything. I stagger to my feet and wish him goodnight, still feeling an unsettling mixture of yearning and pain.

I enter the bedroom again and stand still for a moment, looking at Veron. Children change so quickly, and I notice something new about the way she sleeps: an unusual posture that wasn't there before. She is holding her forefinger very near to her mouth, just barely touching the tip of her lips with its knuckle. It gives her face a curious expression, as though she were deep in thought. Not sleeping, but only keeping her eyes closed while she is thinking intensely about something. Considering things that nobody else does: like butterflies.

I wonder if she has forgotten her question, or whether she will ask me again in the morning. I still don't have an answer to it, and perhaps there isn't any. Butterflies simply complete the tasks allotted to them by Nature, in some general order of things, and then they are gone. It is only to us that their time on earth seems short. But perhaps we should change our perspective, and feel grateful instead. Think how they live quite long enough to reveal themselves to us, soaring and beautiful, and let us know that such beings exist.

9


End file.
